


Blind Faith

by Leah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blindness, M/M, sherlock actually has feelings, sorry - Freeform, uhh yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leah/pseuds/Leah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a case goes wrong, John is horribly wounded, and Sherlock feels guilty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Faith

On the first day, John remains silent, sitting on the couch with his feet tucked under himself, trying to relearn 221B by sound and smell. Sherlock sits with him, feeling the guilt gnaw on his insides, knowing that he caused this horrible turn of events. He doesn’t try to entice John into conversation, knowing it won’t work. When nighttime comes, Sherlock eases John off the couch, guiding him through the apartment into his bedroom, thanking a higher power that John wore pajamas all day. 

He tucks John in, tightly, just as a mother does to her child. “Do you need anything, John?” Sherlock asks, his voice cracking from disuse. 

“I need you,” John answers, pulling on Sherlock’s wrist as he stares into nothing.

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock answers, slipping off his shoes and crawling on to the bed, letting John rest his head against Sherlock as he drifts to sleep.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

On the second day, John wakes before Sherlock, afraid because he can’t remember where he is or how to get out. Sherlock is also awake in an instant, shushing John, gently wiping away his tears of panic. “John, it’s okay,” he murmurs, hoisting John into a sitting position in the hopes that he will calm down. “John, it’s okay, I’m here. It’s okay.”

John collapses on to Sherlock’s shoulder taking deep breaths as he slowly remembers what’s happened. “Sherlock,” he whimpers, breaking Sherlock’s heart at the sound. Sherlock strokes John’s hair, hoping with all his might that, somehow, they will be able to fix John. 

“Shh, John,” Sherlock says, rocking his companion lightly. “Let’s go sit in the living room, I’ll get you some food, okay?” He wants to distract John, make him forget. John doesn’t say anything else, so Sherlock begins to stand up, pulling John up with him. They shuffle into the living room, and Sherlock deposits John on the couch, preparing to walk away, but John stops him by gripping the sleeve of his shirt, tightly, in his fingers. 

“Sherlock, please,” John whispers, his blank eyes roaming the room, desperately searching for Sherlock’s face. “I don’t need anything.”

“You need a lot of things, John,” Sherlock murmurs, sinking onto the couch beside his friend, leaning his head onto John’s shoulder. 

“I don’t remember what happened, Sherlock,” John says, quietly letting a few tears trickle down his cheek. “I just remember it hurt, hurt like nothing I’ve ever felt before. But what happened, Sherlock? What’s happened to me?”

John is becoming hysterical again, breathing faster than he can catch air to replenish his lungs. Sherlock closes his eyes, heaving out a sigh. “John,” Sherlock chokes out, “John, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault, I was stupid, and I couldn’t save you. I’m so sorry, John.” Sherlock feels a tear drop down his cheek, landing on the tee-shirt John’s been wearing for the past few days. 

“Sherlock, I for-“

“Don’t. Not until I tell you what I did.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

“I had been trying to track down that bioterrorist group, you remember? Lestrade was worried the small bombings of the common flu would escalate, slowly but surely into a massive war of illness that London would be helpless against. They were an organization called the Londoners Against Oppression or something equally ridiculous, aiming to back the government into a corner, so they could control the country as they saw fit.

“They were fairly stupid, as are most protesters, and, easily, I found them and their headquarters, located in an abandoned warehouse on the East side of London, filled to the brim with chemicals. Lestrade wanted an invasion last Saturday evening, and he wanted us to come with. Of course, we agreed. After all, it was thanks to us the police could even find the place sitting right under their noses. 

“Everything was set up, just as usual, the armed police swarmed the place first, and we followed, after getting the go ahead, because you insisted we follow the rules for once. We went in, we were supposed to figure what these people even wanted the government to do, and I left you behind. I am so sorry, John. I left you by yourself, in the middle of the chemical storage. There also happened to be a rogue member hiding there, planning on waiting out the police, so he could rally the forces once again, after the raid. He panicked when he saw you, though; Thought he’d been found out. So, he pushed a column of chemicals over, and they broke on top of you. 

“John, it was terrifying. I couldn’t get to you fast enough. A rookie officer pulled you aside, into one of the emergency showers those idiots had been smart enough to install. They washed all the chemicals off your skin, but they got trapped in your eyes. John, I’m so sorry. I will never forgive myself, John. This is entirely my fault. I should’ve kept a better eye on you, protected you better. I’m so sorry, John.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sherlock’s tale takes a solid twenty minutes, as he slowly breaks down closer to the end. Sherlock curls his feet underneath himself, wrapping his arms around his knees, causing John to lean to the side in order to rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock has reduced his speaking to repeating, “My fault, I’m sorry, John.”

“Sherlock,” John murmurs. “This isn’t your fault. I promise, Sherlock. I promise.” John reaches his hands forward, seeking Sherlock’s face. He gasps when he feels tears streaming down his companion’s cheeks but tightens his grip when Sherlock tries to pull away. 

“John, no,” Sherlock says, quietly, trying again, in vain, to pull himself away from John’s grasp. 

“Sherlock, please,” John whimpers, angling Sherlock’s face so he’s facing him. John runs his hands from Sherlock’s cheeks to his neck, rubbing circles on his skin, as John tries to make Sherlock realize he isn’t angry. Sorry, maybe, for what’s happened to him; but not angry.

John doesn’t know what else to do, so he does what feels natural and clumsily aims his lips to land on Sherlock’s forehead, making a shushing noise against Sherlock’s skin as Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s waist and holds him there, for what feels like hours, mumbling his unnecessary apologies. 

In reality, it probably is hours.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

On the third day, John has to spend the day at the hospital, running tests and discussing possible treatments. Sherlock wants desperately to go with him, but the doctors shook their heads as they wheeled John through a pair of double doors. Instead, Sherlock is forced to heave himself into one of the plastic chairs fixed to the ground in the reception area, mindlessly trying to forget what’s happening, where he is, why he’s here. 

Sherlock flicks through a magazine, briefly scanning each page, filled with fashion how-to’s and completely pointless celebrity drama. It only reminds Sherlock of John, and his secret love of reality television and talk shows, so he throws the magazine onto the side table, where it belongs, and, instead, sits in silence, waiting for John to come back.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

“I can tell the difference in light now, Sherlock!” John cries when he’s wheeled back into the lobby. Sherlock drops to his knees in front of John, grinning at John’s sightless eyes. John’s hands find their way to Sherlock’s face, to feel the laugh lines by his eyes, the think lines on his forehead, the worry wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. 

“That’s brilliant, John,” Sherlock murmurs, knocking his forehead against John’s in celebration. “Absolutely brilliant.”  
The doctor clears his throat, bringing Sherlock’s attention back to him. Sherlock gingerly pats John’s hands, still feeling Sherlock’s face, before pulling away to step aside with the doctor, who readjusts the stethoscope around his neck. 

“Can you fix him?” Sherlock asks, ignoring the doctor’s mouth opening to speak. “Will he ever see again?”

“There are a few possibilities we can pursue,” he replies, shifting his feet. “All of which will eventually end in surgery, but, if I’m correct, I believe he will, one day, be able to see.”

“I’ll do anything I can,” Sherlock answers, watching his friend, sitting helpless in a wheelchair. “How long will this take?”

“A few months, maybe a year.”

“I can do this,” Sherlock murmurs to himself. 

“But the real question is, can he?” 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

John has his ups and downs; some days are better than others. Some days, he’s ecstatic that he can see the outlines of most objects, only to have even that small bit of vision fail him during dinner. Some days, he worries that he’ll never see again, forever plunged into this abyss of blackness that is now his everyday life, only to be pleasantly surprised in the morning. 

Sherlock has stopped working on cases, for the time being, to spend as much time with John as possible. He knows that, when left alone, John is liable to panic, lost in his own apartment, stuck in the middle of the living room. Sherlock takes John out for walks, for dinners, for trips to the movies, trying to keep his mind occupied. 

And it works, for a while.

“John!” Sherlock calls through the apartment, not sure where his friend has gone. He does a quick check in the living room before popping his head into John’s room to find him curled in a ball on his bed, his shoulders shaking. “John?” Sherlock says, softer.

“Sherlock, go away,” he mutters, rolling onto his other side, away from the door, as Sherlock clicks it shut, quietly. 

“What’s the matter, John?” Sherlock asks, crossing the room in three long strides before collapsing on the bed beside John, lightly running his fingertips along John’s arm. “Tell me what’s wrong, please,” Sherlock begs when John roughly   
jerks his skin away from Sherlock’s touch.

John lets out a frustrated sigh, rolling onto his back and reaches a searching hand up. Sherlock guides it to rest on his cheek. “I can’t see, that’s what’s wrong, Sherlock,” he hisses, suddenly angry once again, before curling in on himself again. “Everything is hard, I can’t do anything by myself, and you know what? It’s terrifying. I’m sick of being scared of everything, all the time. It’s all I feel now, and, Sherlock, it’s horrible. I can hardly get to the kitchen by myself. I can’t do anything.”

“John, that’s not true,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning his head down to rest on John’s tensed shoulder. Sherlock rubs a circle with his cheek against the soft fabric of John’s tee-shirt. “You can still make a better cup of tea than I can, you can still, somehow, find your favorite sweater, even when I don’t do the laundry. That’s another thing! You still do the laundry better than I do. John, you can do anything you put your mind to, I promise.”

“I can’t make myself see.”

“John,” Sherlock whispers against John’s shoulder. “I believe in you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” John mumbles, turning to face Sherlock on the bed. He nestles his head under Sherlock’s chin, as it is custom now, when they share the bed. Which happens quite often, actually, so John doesn’t wake up in a panic on the worse days. Since he can’t see Sherlock, John needs to feel him nearby at all times, and he’s not sure when the compulsive need began. It just did, maybe even before the accident.

“Yes it does,” Sherlock mumbles back, rubbing his nose against John’s hair. John pulls his knees up, so his whole body is cradled by Sherlock’s lanky frame. “It means everything, John, and you know it.” Sherlock feels John holding his breath, trying not to let out a new wave of tears, this time not tears of fear or frustration, but of knowing Sherlock will always be there, that Sherlock loves him. 

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock murmurs, pressing a soft kiss against John’s hair, knowing that’s where it calms him down best. “You can let it out, I’m right here, not going anywhere, unless you want me to.” Suddenly, Sherlock is uneasy on John’s bed, wondering if John does want him to go, to leave him alone, and Sherlock knows he can’t do that. He won’t.   
But he doesn’t have to worry, after all, because John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulls him nearer to him, and Sherlock can feel him drifting into a very un-restful sleep against his shoulder. Sherlock smiles a small smile against John’s forehead as he mimics his position and flops an arm over John’s prone form, letting John’s peaceful breaths lull him into a protective rest.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

After two months, Sherlock’s worried if John will ever smile again. He is sullen, worrying about something that he won’t share with Sherlock, won’t let him share the burden with him, for some reason. It’s driving Sherlock crazy. All he needs is to take care of John, to atone for his mistakes, to make John better, and John won’t let him. John will sit on his armchair, so Sherlock can’t sit with him, or lock himself in his bedroom, and just think for hours on end, ignoring any attempt Sherlock makes at contact.

The doctors warned Sherlock about this. They said John would become reserved, moody, depressed, all of those things, but Sherlock had vowed to keep John happy. Sherlock tried so hard, harder than he’d ever tried for anything before in his life, and, yet, here they are, with Sherlock sitting with is back against a locked door, with John on the other side; Both horribly isolated from the only thing they need: each other.

Eventually, Sherlock feels the wood easing out from behind him, and he swivels to find John standing above him, his mouth pressed into a tight line. Sherlock’s heart actually aches for John, he can feel the blood pounding within almost slow to a complete stop, leaving his body gasping for nutrients, trying to hold onto rational thought long enough to fix John, because that’ll fix Sherlock, too. 

John unsteadily reaches his hands out for Sherlock, breathing a soft sigh when he finds Sherlock’s curls, before sinking on to the carpet, grimacing as his knees pop with the effort. Sherlock just smiles a small, private smile, which John will never know of. John crosses his legs, so Sherlock’s knees are touching his, and rests his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, rubbing soft circles into Sherlock’s neck. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“Don’t.”

“No, Sher-“

“I said, don’t,” Sherlock interrupts, leaning forward to lean his forehead against John’s, another one of their now trademark actions. “Just don’t.”

“Sherlock,” John sighs, exhaling directly against Sherlock’s lips. He hadn’t realized how close the other man had become. John reaches forward, pulling Sherlock closer, breaching the distance with his lips and planting a soft kiss against Sherlock’s. 

John pulls back, hurriedly feeling along Sherlock’s face, trying to gauge his silent reaction. He is pleased to find the smile lines around Sherlock’s eyes, and finds himself smiling back. Sherlock shifts his weight forward, returning John’s kiss with another one, feeling his heart stop beating for a brief moment before it regains its rhythm and then some.  
John suddenly feels as if nothing matters anymore, because Sherlock just kissed him back. John knows Sherlock loves him, that it isn’t just pity he feels towards John anymore. John breaks off the kiss, suddenly realizing the burn deep in his lungs, and smirks against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock nearly jumps for joy, watching John’s lips form a real grin for the first time in weeks. 

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, suddenly feeling like he needs to say a thousand things, but all he can muster is another,   
“John.”

“Sherlock,” John whispers back, standing up on his knees and repositioning himself over Sherlock’s lap, attacking his lips before Sherlock can say anything else. 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

After that, John has more good days than bad, or, rather, he doesn’t care so much if one day is worse than the one before; not now, not after Sherlock gave up trying to hold himself back. Everyone knows, John and Sherlock couldn’t keep it a secret for their lives, and no one is surprised. 

Mrs. Hudson had said, “Of course you’re in love, dearies; now, would you like some tea?”

Lestrade had laughed before announcing, “When’s the wedding?”

Sally had scoffed, asking, “Fishing didn’t work out for ya, John?”

Every now and then, John feels distressed after a particularly difficult day at the doctor’s, or a very confusing trip to the bathroom, and, now, Sherlock knows how to pull John into his arms just right, where to rub his arms, how to kiss his forehead, murmuring sweet nothings to remind John it doesn’t matter what happens because Sherlock won’t leave him. 

However, every now and then, Sherlock is the one who needs the hugs, the kisses, the touches, when he feels a sudden wave of guilt wash over him, knotting his stomach tightly, because he knows, deep down, he somehow caused all of this. Much like now, as Sherlock leans in the doorway to the kitchen, watching John as he struggles to find the sugar canister for his tea. He searches, tentatively around the counter, chasing circles around invisible objects, swearing softly under his breath when he can’t find it. 

“John,” Sherlock chokes out, the sudden need to protect John from hurting any more than he has to seems to bowl Sherlock over. His voice is strangled, and that isn’t lost on John, who turns away from the counter, holding out his arms. John flexes his fingers, inviting Sherlock over without saying a word. Sherlock obliges, crossing the small kitchen in a matter of steps, letting John pull him closer by the belt loops on his pants. 

“Sherlock,” John coos, rubbing his cheek against Sherlock’s neck. “What’s wrong?” 

That seems to be the guiding question of 221B Baker Street in recent months; “what’s wrong?” or “how do I fix this?” hang over the flat-mates’ heads, constantly circling around, desperately needing to make the other as content as possible. 

“John,” is all Sherlock can muster, burying his face in John’s hair as his arms wrap around John’s neck. “I just want you to stop hurting.”

“I’m not hurt, Sherlock,” John whispers back, giggling as Sherlock’s eyelashes trace lightly over his collarbone. “Not when you’re here, I’m not.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sherlock paces around the waiting room in the hospital, never stopping, just going in one continuous circle around Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John’s sister, Harry. He wrings his hands, just feeling the nerves build up in his chest until he can’t contain it any longer. Heaving a sigh, he flops himself onto a chair beside Mrs. Hudson. 

“He’ll be alright, dearie,” she murmurs, absently patting his hands. “He’s only getting the bandages taken off, he’ll be alright.”

Sherlock sighs again, rolling his head against the back of the plastic chair. About two weeks ago, John had gone in for the corrective surgery Dr. Lewis had hoped for, leaving Sherlock in near catastrophic worry for over five hours, as they worked to fix John’s eyes. Sherlock knows John will be happier with his sight, but he can’t help but wonder if, once he’s fixed, John won’t need Sherlock anymore. 

Soon, the doctor pushes the doors open, pulling a wheelchair containing John out with him. Everyone stands up, hoping for the best. John stuffs his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground in the hopes that it will prolong this world where John still wants him, has him, needs him. “Everything seems to be okay,” Dr. Lewis announces, pausing as everyone cheers. “And he asked that he sees you one at a time, seeing as it’s the first time he’s seen in almost a year.”

“Understandable,” everyone murmurs, letting Harry step forward first, politely looking away as they make their visual reunion. Sherlock tries to ignore the fresh wave of nerves that seems to roll into his stomach and plops down in the chair again, letting everyone go ahead and talk to John before him. 

Sherlock feels an odd mix of excitement and nausea coil in the pit of his stomach, twisting his body in invisible ways, just small twitches in the overworked, tense muscles all over. Suddenly, too soon, Mrs. Hudson is tapping his shoulder, lightly, saying something about how they’ll meet him and John at the flat. Sherlock nods his head, knowing he must face his fears now as he stands up, shaking out his arms, in the hopes that it will cleanse him of the intense emotions. 

It doesn’t work.

He clears his throat and rounds the bank of chairs, edging closer to John’s wheelchair. John wrings his hands, hunching over slightly in his chair as he nervously waits for Sherlock to show up. 

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, letting his fingertips brush lightly against John’s shoulder as he crouches in front of him, both their eyes level, looking into each other’s for the first time. John’s eyes tear up for a moment before he places his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, familiar to the touch yet so unfamiliar on his eyes. Before he says a greeting he presses his lips against Sherlock’s, immediately squashing the feelings of fear in Sherlock’s stomach, as he realizes John was just as afraid as he had been. 

“Sherlock,” John whispers against Sherlock’s lips, opening his eyes to watch Sherlock’s grin. “How I missed your face,   
you’ll never know.”

“You liked my face before the… accident?”

“Of course I did, you idiot,” John murmurs before silencing him with his lips once again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
